


A Fire Extinguished

by excelgesis



Series: Empire of Ashes [5]
Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Class Differences, Heavy Angst, M/M, Making Out, Prince!Mark, Princes, Revolution, Servants, Violence, servant!donghyuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2020-09-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:08:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26246197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/excelgesis/pseuds/excelgesis
Summary: “If this is the last night we have together,” Donghyuck finally breathes, voice teetering on the edge of something unthinkable, “I’m going to ensure you remember it.” He tugs Mark forward again until their lips are mere centimeters apart. “You’re not allowed to forget me, your highness.”Mark blinks back the tears that have risen, sudden and hot, to his lashes. “I’ll never forget you, darling. In this life or the next.” His mouth goes dry—cotton and sandpaper and ashes. “And that is a promise.”
Relationships: Lee Donghyuck | Haechan/Mark Lee
Series: Empire of Ashes [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1280675
Comments: 32
Kudos: 274





	A Fire Extinguished

Everything dulls to a fuzzy ringing in his ears, and a hot strike of nausea sears itself into his stomach. What is he supposed to do? What is he supposed to think, say, _feel—_

“Oh my god.” Donghyuck’s voice shakes. He’s pinned underneath her, eyes wide, lips trembling. Blood seeps down to cover his fingers where they’re buried in the fabric of her dress. “Oh my god, no no no no—”

The world pitches at an odd angle. Mark’s feet are glued to the dirt beneath his shoes. What is he supposed to do, God, _what is he supposed to do?_

“What happened?” Jaemin’s voice, rough around the edges. He shoves Mark hard enough to make him stumble, and Mark hears it the moment his breath catches in his throat. “Jesus.”

“W-What do we do?” Sicheng whispers. “What the fuck are we supposed to do—”

Jaemin lets out a breath, heavy. “Don’t move her. Let me…” He crouches down and places two fingers against her neck. “Gahyeon? Gahyeon, hey…” It’s the softest Mark has ever heard him speak. “Hey, it’s going to be okay, we’ve got you, don’t worry.”

The sound that comes out of Gahyeon’s mouth is high-pitched and small. “Hurts,” she breathes.

“I know, I know,” Jaemin murmurs. “It’s going to get a little worse; just bear with me, okay? You’re going to be fine.” His hands flutter over the wound—delicate, careful—and he presses down just barely—

She doesn’t scream, but the whimper that slips past her gritted teeth is almost worse. Mark feels something visceral tear through his chest as her body goes limp in Donghyuck’s arms.

Jaemin stands and wipes the blood from his fingers. “It didn’t hit bone or any vital organs, from what I can see.” His voice is curt again, clipped and laced with something lethal. “She’ll be fine if we can get medical attention within the next few hours.”

“How likely is that?” Donghyuck’s voice is frantic. “The eastern provinces are still a day away.”

“On foot.” Jaemin squints across the clearing, where smoke still rises in black plumes. “It’s rare for an ambushing party in this area to travel without horses, though. I assume they tethered them several meters away and then snuck up from there. If we can find them,”—his hand tightens around his bow—“we’ll hopefully be fine.”

“Hopefully?” Sicheng chokes.

“Hope is all we have,” Jaemin mutters. “Unless you’ve thought of something better?”

Sicheng shakes his head.

“I’ll go search, then. One of you should come with me as a precaution.”

It’s then that Mark finally finds his voice. “I will.” It’s breathy and small even to his own ears. He realizes that his fingers are shaking at his sides, and he curls them into fists.

Jaemin shoots him a glance from his periphery. “Do you really think you’re the best choice?”

“I-I want to help.”

“Help?” Jaemin snorts. “All of this is _your_ fault. Excuse me for saying so, _your highness,_ but I think you’ve helped enough.”

“Jaemin,” Donghyuck hisses, “this is _not the time.”_

Jaemin rolls his eyes. He’s silent for a moment as his gaze rakes over Mark from head to foot. “If we get attacked again, you’ll never hear the end of it. If you live, that is.” He turns and heads across the clearing, swiftly disappearing behind a thick screen of smoke. Mark is ready to follow him when he hears Donghyuck’s voice, soft and sad.

“Be careful please. I can’t lose you, too.”

Mark’s heart climbs into his throat. Seeing Donghyuck there, hands bloody, eyes wide—he suddenly feels as if all of his efforts will never be enough. The thought stings hot and fierce like a branding iron. “I’ll never leave you, Donghyuck,” he whispers. “I can promise you that.”

He and Jaemin stumble across the horses in less time than Mark would have expected. They’re hidden only a few meters past the tree line, tethered to trunks and thick branches with heavy lengths of rope. Their saddles are rough-hewn and amateur, and Mark notes the lack of any provincial insignias.

“Does this mean…” He swallows. “Does this mean the rumors of rebellion are true?”

Jaemin keeps his gaze locked on his hands, and he deftly loosens a knot in mere seconds. “Don’t pretend you didn’t know.”

“I _didn’t_ know.” Mark tries to infuse his voice with as much force as possible, but it ultimately fails. “I heard the nomads were looking for political legitimacy—”

“They were.” Jaemin looks up then, and there’s an emotion in his eyes that Mark can’t place. “And did they ever get it?”

Something stirs in the back of Mark’s mind: faded memories of his father condemning the nomads for every step they took, meetings with magistrates who spoke of nomadic unrest sweeping through their towns long before it reached the South. He had ignored it. His father had ignored it. The Empire had ignored it. “So they’re… They’re out to kill me?”

Jaemin is silent for a long while. “I’d imagine so.” He finishes untying the last horse and holds out the reins with a raised brow. “You know how to ride, I assume?”

Mark can only nod.

They lead the horses back to the clearing, where the smoke has started to dissipate. Their camp lies in a charred heap—quilts burnt black with shards of glass littered like fallen stars. Mark has to lead the horses around the arrows still lodged in the ground.

Donghyuck’s face is pale when they finally reach him. He still has his arms clasped around Gahyeon’s limp form, and his hands and wrists are caked with drying blood. Sicheng is crouched next to them, carefully pushing Gahyeon’s hair back from her face with shaking fingers. “I think she’s getting worse,” he says hoarsely.

Jaemin hurries toward them and places his hands on her waist. “We need to lift her. Hyuck, help me, on my count.” Donghyuck throws him a terrified glance. “One, two—” They manage to heave her upward in one motion. Her head lolls onto Donghyuck’s shoulder. His eyebrows furrow in panic.

“What do we do now?”

Jaemin’s eyes are focused and dark as he gently removes Donghyuck’s hands from her shoulders. He shifts her weight onto himself, and Mark notes how gently he’s holding her, how concern flashes across his face when blood soaks his hands. He wonders how many times Jaemin has done something like this. He wonders how many times his family has caused something like this.

“Hyuck, mount the nearest horse.” Jaemin jerks his head toward the clearing.

Donghyuck swallows and does so without protest.

“Now I’m going to lift her upward. Grab her as firmly as you can, but do _not_ jostle the arrow. Keep her as steady as possible while you ride. Can you do that?”

“Yes,” he whispers.

Mark rushes to Jaemin’s side to support Gahyeon as he moves toward the clearing. Jaemin shoots him a look but says nothing. Sicheng has joined them by the time they reach Donghyuck’s horse, and it takes their combined efforts to settle her in the saddle. Her chest is pressed flush against Donghyuck’s, her head limp against his neck. Donghyuck heaves out a breath and reaches for the reins.

The ride is arduous. Jaemin takes the lead on his own horse, with Donghyuck in the center and Mark and Sicheng bringing up the rear. The path becomes rocky and steep, and they’re forced to slow from a trot to a walk. A golden sliver of sunlight starts to peek over the horizon.

“Do you think she’ll survive?” It’s the first Sicheng has spoken since they began, and Mark startles at the sound of his voice.

He swallows. Panic lodges behind his ribs and refuses to budge. “I won’t be able to bear it if she doesn’t.”

Sicheng lapses into silence. The trail evens out. The horses begin to trot again. “I know my opinion is not worth much,” he finally says, “but I believe you’ll make a great king.”

Tears rise in Mark’s throat, and he struggles to swallow them back. He wonders how he’ll repay Sicheng’s kindness, how he’ll repair their Empire, how he’ll ever be fit to rule. He doesn’t trust his voice, so he decides to say nothing at all.

The sun is high in an overcast sky when the trail morphs into a cobblestone street. Dark smudges appear in the far distance. Mark thinks he smells the sea.

“Nearly there!” Jaemin calls.

The first building they pass is shuttered and dark. The second seems just as abandoned, but Mark sees a pair of eyes flash in the murky gloom. A shudder crawls down his spine.

They reach the city an hour later, and the eerie unease rooted in Mark’s stomach spreads to his arms and legs. Many of the houses seem to stand empty. A flag bearing an unfamiliar blood-red insignia flaps in the sea breeze at the top of a wooden pole.

They continue onward toward the city center, and that’s when Mark begins to hear it—voices clambering over one another, the sounds of steel against steel, the rumble of carts and wagons. It hits in a sudden rush, an inexorable sea of humanity, and he blinks in shock.

Quivers of arrows line the streets, stacked in haphazard piles. People crowd around forge doors with swords and daggers in hand. Lines snake in front of merchant stalls as citizens load goods into burlap sacks slung across their shoulders. The fountain in the middle of the square has run dry and is instead being used to house row upon row of firearms—illegal in the Empire—and Mark feels a tingling sliver of fear. The same crimson insignia is emblazoned across tapestries hanging from shop windows.

Jaemin tugs his horse to a halt.

Mark sidles up next to him, anxiety pooling in his limbs. “What’s happening?”

Jaemin’s jaw clenches and a spark of something dangerous flashes in his eyes. “They’re preparing.”

“F-For what?”

He sees Jaemin’s fingers tighten around the reins. “They’re going to stage a coup.”

The anxiety blooms into a full-blown panic.

It’s not a ragtag group of rebels hunting him down under cover of darkness.

It’s not a handful of dissatisfied clans clamoring for legitimacy.

It’s not a nomadic tribe intent on fostering dissent.

It’s an army.

It’s a _revolution._

A sickening sense of dread crawls up his throat. His hands tremble and the reins slip from his grasp. “I can’t let this happen,” he chokes.

“Mark,” Jaemin murmurs. It’s the first time he’s used his name. “It already has.”

Mark shakes his head—once, twice, three times. “I-I know the magistrate here. He’ll… He’ll listen to reason; he always has. He’s a good man; h-he won’t stand for this.” He nudges his horse forward. He’s seen maps of the eastern provinces’ largest city and knows the magistrate’s house is directly north. He tries to think of the last time he’d seen him—months ago at a provincial meeting—and realizes with a start that he had been absent from every meeting afterward. The panic returns. He kicks the horse into a gallop, and Sicheng tightens his hold around his waist.

There are street signs that lead him toward the town hall, and the magistrate’s house looms beside it, austere and oddly threatening. Its tiled roof ends in a sharp point against the gray sky. The doors sit tightly closed. Mark pries Sicheng’s hands away and jumps from his horse. He’s climbing the marble steps before he’s thought of what to say, and the door swings inward just as he raises his fist to knock. An armored guard stands at the threshold, and he eyes Mark with disdain. “Can I help you?”

Mark bristles at his tone before remembering he has no right to. He swallows hard. “Is the magistrate here? I need to see him. It’s urgent.”

“Have you scheduled an appointment to meet with him?”

Anger flares again, and he suddenly wishes for a crown atop his head. “Do you have _any idea—”_

Jaemin is beside him in the next instant with a cautionary hand on his shoulder. “We have an injured friend with us. We’re looking for aid if you can provide it.”

The guard’s eyes flicker upward to Donghyuck, who is still clasping Gahyeon in his arms. He seems to ponder for a moment before nodding and pushing the door open. “I’ll mind your horses.”

It takes the four of them to lower Gahyeon from the saddle and carry her up the stairs. A panel of glass in the ceiling leaks muted gray daylight into the entryway. A servant bustles forward from a side room and ushers them through the door. It’s massive, with a bed as large as Mark’s back home and floor-to-ceiling windows flanked by heavy drapes.

“Set her here,” the servant says softly. She watches with sad eyes as they lay Gahyeon facedown on the duvet. “How long has she been like this?”

“Several hours too many,” Jaemin replies curtly. “Is there anything you can do?”

“I’ll ask the magistrate to fetch the city doctor.” She hurries from the room, and the door swings shut softly behind her.

Fat drops of rain begin to splatter against the windowpanes.

Gahyeon draws a shuddery breath.

Mark’s stomach turns inside-out.

He jumps when a light knock rings throughout the room, and the door opens before any of them have said a word. A man steps inside, and Mark recognizes his slim face and sharp eyes. There’s a weariness to him that was never there before. His rumpled silk shirt hangs open at the collar.

“Doyoung,” Mark breathes. He rushes forward. “Doyoung, I am so glad to see you.”

The magistrate blinks and his brow furrows. “I apologize—have we met?”

That stops him short. He glances down at his filthy clothing—caked with blood, sweat, and dirt—and realizes the last time he had seen Doyoung, he was draped in royal silks. He clears his throat. “I… I don’t blame you for not recognizing me. These past few days have been difficult, to say the least.”

Doyoung cocks his head to one side. He squints. Mark sees it the moment realization slides across his face, and a sharp gasp slips past his teeth. “It can’t be.” He moves forward, as if to get a closer look. _“Your highness?”_

Relief crashes through Mark like an ocean wave. “I know we haven’t seen one another in quite some time, but I’m begging you—”

“I don’t know what it is you’re trying to do.” It lilts upward like a question. He eyes Mark with a suspicion so strong it knocks the wind out of him. “But I assure you, I want no part in it.”

Mark struggles to breathe. Disbelief twists around his neck. “Doyoung—”

“I think it’s best if you leave.” He turns on his heel and strides into the hallway.

“D-Doyoung, please!” Mark shouts after him. He scrambles to catch the door before it closes. Doyoung is walking away with stiff shoulders, and Mark breaks into a run, nearly tripping in his haste. He manages to wrap a hand around Doyoung’s wrist before he disappears into another room. “Please, she—she’s _dying.”_

Doyoung stops but doesn’t turn around. “She’s a servant, no?”

Mark hesitates in his confusion. “Y-Yes.”

“Then her life must not matter much to you.”

He sucks in a breath. “How could you—”

“I’m not blind, your highness.” It’s soft, with a sadness to it that brings Mark pause. “I’ve seen how you treat them. Your family is not exactly known for their warm hearts.”

Dread sinks through him like a stone. Guilt creeps up his throat. “I… I don’t expect you to believe a word of this, but I”—he takes a breath, and the words trip on his tongue—"I know I can’t undo what my parents have already done. But she’s an innocent girl, Doyoung. Surely you don’t think she deserves to die?”

There’s a long stretch of silence. Doyoung finally glances over his shoulder. “I’ll call the physician. But you best believe I’m doing this for her, not for you.” He pulls his wrist from Mark’s grip.

Rain pounds hard against the skylight.

♕

They’re forced to leave the room when the doctor arrives.

Fear has a tight hold around Mark’s throat. He paces up and down the hallway until Jaemin tugs at the back of his shirt. “If you wear a hole in this expensive carpet, I’m sure we’ll be kicked out.”

Donghyuck is sitting on the floor, back slumped against the wall and knees pulled up to his chest. Sicheng sits beside him and rubs comforting circles against his shoulder.

Mark wonders if he will ever be able to fix this.

The longest hour of his life ticks by on an old mahogany clock.

When the door finally opens, Donghyuck and Sicheng scramble to their feet. Mark notes how pale they are, how their hands shake. Nausea twists his stomach into knots.

“She’ll be fine,” the physician says with a nod. “I was able to remove the arrow and stitch the wound. She’s lost a lot of blood, so please ensure she rests adequately for the next several days. Don’t hesitate to call on me if anything goes wrong.”

Donghyuck bursts into tears then—the relieved kind, the happy kind—and Mark reaches for him before he can collapse to the carpet. He clings to Mark’s shirt, sobs into his shoulder, draws in shaky gasps that leave his entire body shaking. Relief leaves Mark lightheaded, and he can feel tears gathering along his lashes.

“Thank you,” Jaemin murmurs. He clasps the doctor’s hands in his own. “Thank you so much.”

The doctor inclines his head politely before taking his leave.

The hallway falls into thick silence.

“I’m… I’m going to go see her,” Sicheng finally says, voice soft and careful. He lets out a breath before stepping across the threshold.

Mark pulls back and cradles Donghyuck’s face in his hands. “Everything is going to be okay,” he whispers, using his thumbs to wipe the tears from Donghyuck’s cheeks. “It’s going to be okay, I promise you.”

Donghyuck smiles then, wobbly at the edges, and Mark feels his heart climb into his throat. God, he’s so _beautiful._ “You’ve made an awful lot of promises tonight.”

Mark’s lips quirk upward at the corners, just enough. “And I intend to keep every one.”

Jaemin mutters something under his breath and shoves the bedroom door open. It slams behind him with a sound that echoes loud and harsh.

Mark glances over his shoulder at the empty place he leaves behind. “You know, I don’t think he likes me much.”

Donghyuck sighs. “He doesn’t really like anyone.” There’s a bitterness to it, a hard and jagged edge that cuts deep. “Not anymore, at least.”

Mark’s stomach twists in on itself. He tries not to think of the horrors Jaemin must have faced. 

Donghyuck huffs out another breath and tugs him forward. “We should go see her, don’t you think?”

Mark can only nod and follow him through the door.

Sicheng is perched in a chair at the bedside, brow furrowed as he clasps one of Gahyeon’s hands in both of his. He looks up when he hears the door swing shut. “She’s still unconscious.” His trembling lips lend a shakiness to his voice. “But her breathing is a bit more stable.”

“You got lucky this time, your highness,” Jaemin drawls. He’s perched against the wall with his arms crossed tightly over his chest. “I’d hate to see another person die because of you.”

Donghyuck’s hand tightens around Mark’s own. “Jaemin—”

He cocks a brow. “Am I wrong?”

Donghyuck opens his mouth to retort but stops short when Mark tugs gently at his arm.

“Let it go, love. He’s right.”

“He is most certainly _not_ right.” Donghyuck’s voice takes on an edge sharp as knives. “It isn’t your duty to bear your family’s sins.”

Mark longs for it to be true. His chest aches with the force of it. “If I don’t, who will?”

Donghyuck sucks in a breath, and his lips turn down at the corners. “Mark—”

And it’s suddenly too much.

Sicheng’s worry-flooded eyes, Gahyeon’s hair fanned in tangles across the pillow, Jaemin’s disapproving frown—the air shudders out of his body in a rush. His fingers go slack in Donghyuck’s grasp. “I… I don’t know if I can fix this,” he whispers. He thinks of the Empire crumbling to dust under his hands; thinks of his mother’s wicked smile and his father’s unforgiving stare. Thinks of all those who’ve suffered—who’ve lived and lost just to live and lose again. Defeat rests cold and heavy on his shoulders. “I think I need to… be alone, just for a moment.” He drops Donghyuck’s hand and hurries into the hallway, ignoring the shouts and protests that follow him.

His shoulder blades hit the wall and he sinks to the floor, head in his hands, breaths heaving in shuddery gasps that leave him lightheaded. How can he possibly be expected to fix this on his own? How can he singlehandedly put an end to years and years of suffering?

“Your highness?” Doyoung strides down the hallway with his hands clasped behind his back. His brows furrow when he catches Mark’s stare, and concern flits across his face for half an instant. “Did the servant not make it?”

“She’s fine.” Mark shakes his head. His voice is like gravel under carriage wheels. “She’ll survive.”

“Then what are you doing out here?”

He opens his mouth to respond but closes it again when he realizes none of his replies will make sense in Doyoung’s eyes. He shakes his head again and swipes at the tears gathering on his lashes. Silence settles between them, broken only by the ticking of the old mahogany clock.

Doyoung takes a breath. “Is there… something I should know?”

Mark swallows. “What do you mean?”

“You seem…” Doyoung squints and tilts his head to one side. “A bit different from how I remember you.”

Mark almost laughs, short and humorless. _Different_ is certainly an understatement. “As I said before, I don’t expect you to believe me.”

“How can I disbelieve that which I haven’t heard?”

Mark pauses, thinks, brings his hands to his hair. “It’s a rather long story,” he whispers.

Doyoung cocks a brow. “I would expect nothing less.” He holds out a hand, and Mark simply stares at it with watery eyes. “Come with me. I’ll call for tea.”

“A-Are you sure?”

“I wouldn’t have suggested it if I wasn’t.”

Mark climbs to his feet. His knees shake. He follows Doyoung down the hallway to a lavish parlor done up in florals and silks. It reminds him a bit of his parlor in the palace, and the thought sits heavy in his stomach.

“Have a seat.” Doyoung gestures to the nearest armchair. Mark collapses into it and watches as a servant prepares a tea service. He thinks of Gahyeon.

“Now.” Doyoung perches on the chair opposite him, steeples his fingers, and levels a pointed stare across the table. “Do tell me why you showed up on my doorstep covered in dirt with a half-dead servant girl.”

Mark reaches for a teacup, but his fingers shake so violently he decides against it. “I… I don’t know where to begin.”

“Did the king send you?”

Mark shakes his head.

“The queen?”

He stutters out a soft “no.”

“You chose to do this?”

Mark is not sure what to say to that. “I’m forbidden from returning to the palace.”

Doyoung’s teacup stops halfway between the saucer and his mouth. “Sorry?”

“I can’t go back.” The thought still leaves him with a hollow ache. “My father forbade it.”

The teacup returns to the saucer with a _clink._ “Might I ask why?”

Dread climbs up his throat. Surely Doyoung won’t understand, and he can’t bear to see disgust flit across his features. He shakes his head. “It’s… quite complicated.”

Doyoung hums and leans back in his chair. “Did you break a treaty?”

“No.”

“Leak royal secrets?”

“No.”

There’s a stretch of silence. “I hate guessing games, your highness.”

Mark swallows, but the dread holds fast. “I… grew fond of a servant.”

Doyoung squints. “Fond?”

“I suppose _fond_ is a bit of an understatement, to be honest.” He clears his throat. He thinks of Donghyuck on that very first day, staring at him with guarded eyes in the dim light of their dining room. He thinks of their first kiss and the way Donghyuck’s hands had seared straight to his core like a branding iron.

“You fell in love with a servant?” It drips with a thick incredulity.

“Yes,” Mark whispers.

Doyoung inclines his head in the direction of the hallway. “That injured girl?”

Mark’s ears begin to burn. “No.”

“Did you leave her behind at the palace, then?”

“No.” It comes out on half a breath. “I couldn’t leave him behind.”

The room quickly fills with a crushing silence.

Doyoung clears his throat after minutes that pass like hours. “I must have misheard.”

Mark lowers his gaze and clasps his hands together in his lap. He remembers his father’s gaze, cold and unforgiving as icy steel. A steady sort of fear creeps into his lungs and whisks away his breath.

“A male servant?” Disbelief softens the edges of Doyoung’s words. “Surely you aren’t serious, your highness—”

“I’ve given up everything for him,” Mark whispers. It shudders, falters, breaks. “My family, my power, my status… Do you think I would be here if I weren’t serious?”

He hears Doyoung suck in a sharp breath.

The tears spill, and embarrassment strikes hot through his chest. He thinks of how Doyoung must see him: the crown prince fallen from grace, scrambling to pick up the pieces and cobble them together into a shape that makes sense. He feels pathetic, suddenly, for the first time in his life. “If you’re going to kick us out, then please do it quickly. I don’t wish to give them any more false hope.”

“Kick you out? Do you truly think I’m that cruel?”

Mark’s head snaps upward, and he sees Doyoung regarding him with something akin to kindness. “I-I don’t know.”

Doyoung’s lips quirk upward in a soft half-smile. “The East has known peace for years; I didn’t achieve that through malice.”

Mark remembers the Doyoung from their provincial meetings: kindhearted, generous, and fiercely outspoken. His father had always regarded him with disdain but couldn’t risk losing their steady stream of imports. _Weak,_ the king would say after Doyoung had left. _Kindness can only get you so far._

Mark swipes at his tears with his fingertips. “I’m sorry,” he chokes. “For how my father treated you. F-For how I treated you. You deserve much more than the Empire gave.”

Doyoung shakes his head. “My people have been happy for quite a long time. As a magistrate, I could never ask for anything more.”

“And you don’t think I’ve”—it catches on a sob—“You don’t think I’ve done wrong?”

A sadness flickers through Doyoung’s eyes. “We’ve all done wrong, your highness. The love you have for him does not absolve you of your sins, but if it has changed you for the better, I am happy for you both.”

♕

He returns to Gahyeon’s room after the tea goes cold. They sit in silence. Mark feels Jaemin’s eyes on him, cutting through his skin like sharpened steel. Donghyuck reaches for his hand. Mark wonders if their love has changed him for the better at all.

Doyoung invites them to dinner when the sun burns red on the horizon. It’s another silent affair that hangs awkward and heavy. His gaze flits between Mark and Donghyuck for several seconds until he catches Mark’s eye across the table. He raises both brows, questioning.

Mark clears his throat. “Donghyuck, this is Doyoung, the magistrate of the East.”

Donghyuck bows his head. “Thank you for your aid.”

“No need to thank me.” Doyoung waves his fork in a dismissive gesture. “Donghyuck, was it? I hear you’ve done rather impressive things for our Empire.”

Donghyuck blinks. “I’m sorry; I don’t quite follow.”

Doyoung’s gaze slides to Mark. “I’ve known his highness for quite some time, you know. You must be incredibly special to have stolen his heart so completely.”

“I…” A flush creeps up Donghyuck’s neck and he ducks his head.

“This is hardly relevant,” Jaemin says curtly.

Doyoung turns in his seat. “Oh?”

“A revolution is underway, given the weapons piling up in your town square.”

“Quite the observation.” Mark doesn’t miss the sarcastic bite in his tone. “Pardon me for assuming this dinner wasn’t a political one.”

“Dissent doesn’t pause for dinner.”

Doyoung snorts, and Jaemin’s face twists into a scowl. “Very well, then. If you want to talk politics, you have the floor.”

Jaemin sets his fork down with a clatter. “Your people are planning a coup, and this is how you respond?”

“They’re not only my people. Do you really think unrest is contained to the East?”

“Then who—”

“Nomadic clans from all across the Empire have found refuge here. It’s no surprise they’ve banded together under a common cause.”

Mark’s blood runs cold. “They’re really going to storm the palace?”

Doyoung’s gaze is sad. “Did you expect anything else?”

“It… It won’t work,” Mark splutters. “The royal army is thousands strong—”

“And we are ten thousand strong,” Doyoung says.

Icy unease slips down his spine. “We?”

“The East is my home, your highness, and my people have sided with the nomads for quite a long time. I am not about to disappoint them.”

“You…” Mark’s breath sticks in his throat. “You’ve orchestrated this?”

“Not singlehandedly.” Doyoung pauses, and the weariness Mark had seen before returns and makes him look years older. “But I know the palace’s layout better than anyone. And I know your father would never suspect me.” He huffs out a humorless laugh. “I’m aware of what he says behind my back.”

“Th-This…” Mark stutters, helpless, his hands flailing uselessly, “this is outrageous, Doyoung, people will _die—”_

“People already have.” His voice slips into something sharper, something angrier.

“Because of wars the nomads started themselves!” And Mark can see it, the Empire crumbling to ashes in his hands. Desperation floods in. “If they have the capacity to kill for their own gain, are they truly fit to rule?”

Doyoung sucks in a breath through his teeth. “For their own gain? Just what do you think has been happening here?”

“They… They ambushed us in the woods! They were out to kill me, Doyoung, and you side with them—”

“They were none of mine,” Doyoung says sharply. “There are many in this country who wish to see you dead, your highness. Far more than we have here.”

“Innocent people have been slaughtered left and right,” Jaemin cuts in. His fingers curl into fists atop the table. “I’ve _seen_ it.”

“Let me ask you this.” Doyoung’s voice is taut. “Did you ever see any nomadic clan strike without reason? Did you ever see any of them brandish a weapon at an unarmed civilian? Did you ever see any of them engage in combat first?”

Jaemin’s eyes narrow, but he says nothing in response.

“I asked you a question.”

“It hardly matters who engaged first!” Jaemin shouts. “They’re the ones who attacked our cities—”

“I’ve followed the nomadic cause since the beginning. Every protest began peacefully; tell me how that, exactly, qualifies as an attack?”

“Just what are you implying—"

“They sought to have their voices heard,” Doyoung says. “But voices are quickly silenced at the end of a knife, are they not?”

Something clicks then, heavy in Mark’s mind, and he frowns. “Do you mean to say the citizens were the ones who started the fighting?”

“Those with something to lose usually are. Their land, their legitimacy, their vested interests—the nomads posed a threat to their way of life.”

“That’s absolutely ridiculous,” Jaemin snarls. He stands so quickly his chair topples to the floor. “My hometown was burned to the ground; we were struggling to _survive—”_

“So were they.” Doyoung’s eyes flash in the candlelight. “Acts of self-defense are not always as clear-cut as we would think.”

“You’re joking; this is a _fucking joke!”_ Jaemin shoves away from the table. The silverware clatters from the force. “You’re blaming us for the downfall of the Empire?”

“I’m not blaming anyone,” Doyoung says curtly. “I have no control over how this began, but I do have control over how it ends.”

Jaemin’s brows rest low over dark eyes. He looks poised to reply, poised to fight and scream and tear the room apart, but instead he turns on his heel and storms through the door. It slams behind him.

They’re left in a thick, stunned silence.

“I can’t,” Mark chokes, “I can’t believe this.”

Doyoung pushes his plate away, and a servant shuffles to his side to retrieve it. “This is not the first time the Empire has made villains out of victims, your highness.”

Mark feels a poignant nausea rise to his tongue. He thinks of all the times his father condemned the nomadic tribes, spitting epithets at provincial meetings and painting them as nothing short of barbaric. He thinks of the South, of the drought and the war, and wonders just how much fault could have rested on their shoulders, rather than the other way around. He turns to Donghyuck to see the color drained from his face and his hands shaking in his lap. “Love…” He whispers.

“So you mean to say,” his voice is thick with tears when he finally speaks, “that my family are to blame for my sister’s death? That they’re to blame for their own capture? That they damned themselves from the very beginning?”

“Of course that’s not true,” Mark breathes.

“I place no blame on your family, Donghyuck,” Doyoung murmurs. “The movement had gathered considerable momentum on its way from the North. Violence was likely to flare no matter what, even at the smallest provocation. But I can assure you there was no capture involved. Anyone who follows us does so willingly.”

Donghyuck makes a strangled noise. “But Jaemin said—”

“People see what they wish to see.” Doyoung folds his hands together on the tabletop. “That is how we got to this point.”

“So the citizens… My people…” Mark’s voice catches in his throat. “They’re to blame.” 

Doyoung’s eyes rake over his face. He seems to weigh his words carefully. “As I said before, your highness, I am not blaming anyone. But the nomadic clans are your people, too, are they not?”

Ashes to ashes to ashes—Mark sees it all ignite before his eyes. “If the coup is successful—who intends to rule? Nomads have no political experience; the Empire will fall apart—”

Doyoung raises a brow. “It is true that many of them lack political expertise. I, on the other hand, am quite knowledgeable, don’t you think?”

Mark’s breath leaves his body in a rush. “They chose you?”

Doyoung gives a curt nod.

“So if… If this succeeds… I won’t be in line for the throne?”

“That is what many of them are hoping for.”

Mark’s stomach turns to water. Relief and horror flash through his mind in equal measure. He sees Donghyuck with tears in his eyes, clasping at Mark’s shirtsleeves, insisting that Mark’s generosity was wasted—

_“When I’m king, and I have the Empire in the palm of my hand, I will give it to you. And you will never suffer again.”_

He thinks of his mother’s harsh discipline, his father’s ironclad honor, the palace’s servants huddled in fear at the edge of the dining room.

He hears Sicheng’s soft voice: _“I know my opinion is not worth much, but I believe you’ll make a great king.”_

He swallows every emotion down until all that’s left is a fierce resolve. “I’ve made promises that I intend to keep. If the Empire fell by my parents’ hands, it will rise again by mine, and mine alone.”

Donghyuck scrambles for his hand and clasps it tight. “Mark, you don’t have to do this—”

Mark looks at him, at his tears that burn orange in the candlelight, and knows that he deserves nothing less than the world at his feet. “When I have the Empire in the palm of my hand, I will give it to you,” he whispers. “And you will never suffer again.”

“I can’t guarantee your success or your survival, your highness.” Doyoung’s eyes are bright. “But welcome to the revolution.”

♕

It continues to rain for five straight days.

Mark spends the majority of his time holed up in Doyoung’s study reviewing every aspect of the revolutionary army. He memorizes the names of clan figureheads—Ten, Renjun, Xiaojun, Jisung—and tracks routes on maps pinned to the walls. They strategize, rethink, regroup, strategize again. Ten shows up on Doyoung’s doorstep and visibly stiffens when his eyes land on Mark. It takes two dinners and three afternoon tea services to explain, but when he returns with a handful of clan leaders, they shake Mark’s hand and join their planning with steadfast dedication.

Gahyeon continues to improve, and when she grasps Sicheng’s arm and follows them to dinner on unsteady legs, Mark cries until Sicheng makes a joke at his expense.

Donghyuck watches him with worried eyes. Mark comes to bed during those watery gray predawn hours, and his forehead creases when he reaches for his wrists.

“Don’t overwork yourself,” he pleads every time.

And Mark reassures him again and again and again, but it’s never quite enough. Donghyuck still grips at his shirt when he leaves their room at sunrise, still begs him to _stay, please, just this once._

Mark’s heart breaks a dozen times over, shattering at his feet and making the walk to Doyoung’s study all the more painful.

♕

The days tick by. Mark wonders if time has always moved this quickly.

They’re gathered in Doyoung’s dining hall, but conversation is sparse as they pick at their food. Rain lashes the windows. Thunder shakes the house’s roof.

Gahyeon sets her fork down softly. “I do wish you’d let us join.”

Doyoung’s eyes soften into something sad. “His highness forbade it for your own good.” 

“So you really intend to leave us here?” Sicheng says with a frown. “While you risk your lives?”

“We’re sure to succeed,” Mark interjects. “This has been planned for months upon months.”

“Success is never a guarantee.” Sicheng pushes his plate away. “What will happen if we lose you?”

“Please don’t say that,” Donghyuck whispers.

Mark reaches for Donghyuck’s hand. “I am not going anywhere. Neither is Doyoung, neither are any of us. Once the palace is secure, we’ll come back for you. I just”—he sucks in a breath—“I want what’s best for you all. This is the safest place for you.”

They lapse into another bout of silence.

Donghyuck is the first to leave the room.

Mark trudges up the stairs after his review with Doyoung is finished. It’s earlier than usual, only an hour past sunset, and he pushes open the bedroom door to see the bed empty and the fireplace cold. “Donghyuck?” He calls. He steps into the room, squints against the darkness, pushes back the drapes—

Donghyuck is there on the stone balcony with his elbows resting on the edge. It offers little shelter from the rain, and his tawny hair and silk pajamas are plastered to his skin. He doesn’t turn when Mark pulls open the door.

“Darling, what are you doing out here?”

He hears no response.

He steps onto the balcony and flinches as ice-cold droplets pelt his skin. “Donghyuck, what—”

“Don’t do this.” It’s soft, so soft Mark barely hears it over the sound of the storm.

Mark reaches for his arm. “What do you mean?”

“What if you don’t return?” Donghyuck keeps his eyes on his hands, clasped together and hanging over the balcony’s edge. “What if tonight is the last we see of each other?”

Mark sucks in a breath. “I promise I’ll return for you, love. Our lives will consist of so much more than this.”

Donghyuck turns then, and Mark thinks he should be used to seeing him, but the air is still wrenched from his lungs all the same. His eyes are wide, framed in those impossibly long lashes, and water trails from his soaked hair down to the collar of his shirt. “You shouldn’t make promises you can’t keep.”

Mark’s hand trails down the length of his arm to catch his fingers in his own. “Have I ever broken any of the promises I’ve made to you?”

“But you have no control over this.” There’s a desperation in his voice that pushes Mark’s heart into this throat. “No one can say for certain what will happen.”

“Donghyuck.” He brings their intertwined fingers to his lips and leaves a kiss on each of his knuckles, again and again until Donghyuck’s grip goes slack. “We have a lifetime ahead of us, and I’ve vowed to spend it with you. There are a hundred thousand things we have yet to do.”

Donghyuck’s breath comes out shuddery and small.

“And,” Mark drops their hands and places a finger under Donghyuck’s chin, guiding his face upward until their gazes lock, “there are a hundred thousand things I have yet to do for you.”

Donghyuck’s eyes slip closed. He takes a step closer.

“This is only the beginning, my darling,” Mark whispers. He leans forward until Donghyuck’s breath ghosts over his face. “I’ll be with you, now and forever.”

Donghyuck breathes a soft sigh, and their lips meet in a kiss that’s so slow, Mark feels unsteady on his feet. He’s about to lower his hands toward Donghyuck’s waist, to pull him until their bodies press flush, but Donghyuck tangles his fingers in Mark’s collar and backs him against the balcony railing. Mark gasps at the force and slides his hand along Donghyuck’s jawline until his fingers thread through his rain-drenched hair. Donghyuck catches his lower lip between his teeth, hard enough that Mark flinches from the pain. He’s tugging Mark’s soaked shirt away from his skin, hiking it up until his fingers can trail underneath, and Mark shivers as his icy fingers leave goosebumps in their wake.

Mark tugs at his hair gently until he pulls back to stare at him with bright eyes. “Can we take this inside?” He breathes.

Donghyuck doesn’t answer, but instead digs his fingernails hard into Mark’s skin. He tilts his head and moves in to press open-mouthed kisses against his neck that quickly devolve into harsh bites, leaving Mark shaking in his hands. He tugs at Donghyuck’s hair again, more roughly this time, and Donghyuck merely whimpers against his skin. A shuddery breath claws its way out of Mark’s lungs.

“Donghyuck,” he gasps. “L-Let’s take this inside—”

Donghyuck takes a step back, then two and three more, pulling Mark along with him until they’re stumbling through the door. He shoves Mark up against it, hard enough for it to slam closed, and Mark feels as if his bones have melted through the floor.

“Close the drapes,” Donghyuck murmurs. He trails his tongue along Mark’s collarbone and continues to hike his shirt up, higher and higher and higher. A whine slips past Mark’s teeth, and he reaches to tug the drapes closed. His head tilts back to knock against the glass as Donghyuck hums against his neck. “The drapes, your highness,” he whispers.

“C-Can’t,” Mark stutters. He’s pulled them in as far as he can, and his fingers twist into the velvet when Donghyuck catches his earlobe between his teeth. He pulls Mark forward hard, until he arches off the glass, and breathes hot against his ear.

“Try again.”

Mark manages to pull the drapes closed with shaky fingers.

“Good,” Donghyuck breathes. He tugs again at Mark’s soaked shirt, peeling it away from his overheated skin and letting it drop to the floor. His fingernails dig crescents into Mark’s bare shoulders. And he’s kissing him again, hard, more teeth than anything else, and pulling him toward the bed with insistent hands. There’s a desperation to it—a ferocity that’s so unlike him it brings Mark pause—and he pulls back with a gasp when Donghyuck presses him up against one of the wooden bedposts.

“L-Love,” he stutters, but Donghyuck doesn’t stop, instead reaching to tug at his hair and yank his head back. Mark almost wants to fight it, this fierce Donghyuck that takes and takes, but his knees go weak when Donghyuck presses their bodies flush and whimpers against his neck. “Love,” he tries again.

Donghyuck rakes his fingernails down his back—too hard—and Mark yelps and tries to pull away, body arching against the bedpost. “Darling—”

Donghyuck only digs his nails in harder.

Mark frowns. “Donghyuck!”

His tone is enough that Donghyuck finally looks up, hair tangled and eyes teary, and Mark sucks in a breath at the look on his face. It’s unbearably sad, the kind of sadness that festers in one’s very core for days upon days, and Mark reaches for his shoulders. “Donghyuck, what—”

“If this is the last night we have together,” he finally breathes, voice teetering on the edge of something unthinkable, “I’m going to ensure you remember it.” He tugs Mark forward again by the waistband of his trousers until their lips are mere centimeters apart. “You’re not allowed to forget me, your highness.”

Unease forces Mark’s heart into his throat. “That’s nonsense, love.”

Donghyuck’s eyes slip closed, and Mark feels a shuddery breath fan across his face. “Please just… just say it, Mark. Say you won’t forget me.”

“Donghyuck, no—”

“Please.” It drops to a whisper, and Mark sees him open his eyes only to keep his gaze fixed on the floor. “Just once.”

Mark blinks back the tears that have risen, sudden and hot, to his lashes. “I’ll never forget you, darling. In this life or the next.” His mouth goes dry—cotton and sandpaper and ashes. “And that is a promise.”

A sob wrenches its way past Donghyuck’s teeth, and when they lock eyes again, there are tears dripping off his chin and sliding into his collar. “I love you,” he gasps. His fingers shake where they’re hooked around Mark’s waistband. “I love you so much, please, I can’t lose you too—”

“Love,” Mark whispers. He rubs the tears away with both thumbs, gentle against Donghyuck’s cheeks. “I love you, too, darling. You’ll never know how much.” He leans forward to press his lips against Donghyuck’s forehead. “We have an entire life ahead of us, and I look forward to every second.”

A sob shudders through Donghyuck’s chest, then another and another, and his body starts to shake with the force of his tears. Mark wraps his arms around him, pulling him close until he rests against Mark’s bare shoulder. He cards his fingers through his hair and presses soft kisses to the top of his head. “Hush, darling,” he murmurs. “This is only the beginning.”

♕

When the sun rises the next morning, it’s barely visible through tightly packed rainclouds. Mark slips out of bed, careful not to rustle the duvet, and hisses when his bare feet hit cold hardwood.

“Mark.”

He whirls around at the sound of Donghyuck’s voice. “I-I thought you’d still be asleep, love.”

Donghyuck sits up, letting the silk bedclothes pool around his bare waist. He hesitates before speaking. “If I must stay behind, at least let me see you off.”

Sorrow wedges itself somewhere between Mark’s heart and his mouth. He can’t speak around it, can’t swallow it down, so he merely nods and holds out both hands.

They dress in silence and make their way downstairs. It’s busy already, with servants bustling back and forth and clan leaders flitting anxiously around the dining room. The table is piled high with weapons, bulging burlap sacks, rolled maps tied with lengths of twine—Mark feels fear pulse through him for the first time since he agreed to it all.

“Thank God,” Doyoung breathes when he sees him. “Get over here, quickly.”

Mark hurries to his side. Donghyuck hovers near the door, fingers curling and uncurling in agitation.

“You’ve memorized the route, yes?”

Mark nods. “Of course.”

“You’ve coordinated with Ten and Xiaojun on the attack strategy?”

“Of course I have.” He holds his tongue against the onslaught of doubt suddenly raging through his mind. “We’re… We’re going to be fine.”

“Very encouraging,” Doyoung huffs. He runs both hands through his hair as he paces back and forth in front of the table. “Is this mad? Are we mad for even attempting this? If I lead these people to slaughter—”

He’s never seen this side of Doyoung—uncertain, upset, afraid—and Mark chokes on his own breath. “Doyoung. This isn’t the time to be thinking that way—”

“I know. I know.” He shakes his head and releases his grip on his hair. “I know. I just… I cannot believe it’s happening, your highness. After all this time…” He exhales, and Mark can hear the tremor in it. “They’ve worked so hard, and I’m afraid I might disappoint them.”

“Doyoung.” Mark reaches to place a hand on his shoulder. His fingers shake, and he prays Doyoung doesn’t notice. “You have been there for them when no one else was. You have given them hope when no one else could. You have shown them that their lives have _value.”_ He swallows. “If I’m able to become half the ruler you are, I would be satisfied.”

Doyoung’s lips part. He blinks, tilts his head back, blinks again. Mark sees it when the tears fall anyway, and Doyoung quickly swipes at them with shaking hands. “I never expected to hear such flattery from you, your highness.” He lets out a breathy laugh. “It’s odd how quickly one’s world can change.”

Mark glances at Donghyuck hovering in the doorway. His chest aches.

Odd, indeed.

Rain is falling in glassy sheets when Mark slings a quiver of arrows over his back and stands resolutely in Doyoung’s front hallway. It drums against the skylight, harder and harder, until the entire entryway echoes with it. His heart pounds in time, frenetic.

Donghyuck is at his side, one hand firmly in his. His forehead creases with worry, and a sadness flashes through his eyes that’s so profound, Mark feels his stomach turn to water.

“You don’t have to do this.”

“It’s my duty to my country.” Mark’s voice is sandpaper when he speaks. “And my duty to you.”

Donghyuck’s grip tightens. “There is no duty between us.”

Mark yearns for it to be true. His chest burns and his heart goes heavy with the force of it. “But there is, Donghyuck. There always has been, from the moment we met. My family has wronged you in innumerable ways.” He wishes for resolution to find his tongue, to wrap his words in something ironclad and sure. But all that slips through is desperation and an aching sadness when he says, “I will be damned if it happens again.”

Voices begin to gather beyond the front door, louder and louder, tripping over one another in anger and haste. He wonders how many of their families had to die.

Doyoung comes to stand at his side. His silk shirt is buttoned up to the neck. Mark thinks of the city’s stockpile of armor—thinks of Doyoung’s sad eyes when he demanded it be distributed evenly amongst the clans and civilians. He thinks of how vulnerable they are, suddenly, with illegal firearms in their untrained hands. With their daggers, swords, and arrows flailing against the might of the royally trained armed guard—the dread he’s been feeling solidifies into a heavy knot.

Doyoung simply sighs and lifts his gaze to stare through the slate gray skylight. Lightning flashes bright across his face. “A fine day for a revolution, is it not?”

Mark is not sure he can agree.

Doyoung squares his shoulders, steps forward, and throws the door open. Freezing rain blows into the entryway, and they’re hit with a wall of noise—shouts and cheers rise from a crowd of thousands. They lift their weapons into the air. Mark sees several flags snapping in the icy breeze, each emblazoned with that same blood-red insignia. Donghyuck’s grip goes slack.

Mark can only stare at their patchwork armor—a breastplate here, a helmet there—and he wonders if maybe they’re mad, after all. Unease slithers tight around his neck. _They’ll never survive this._

He grasps his bow, tighter and tighter until his fingers ache. _They will. They must._ He takes a step forward and Donghyuck stumbles with him. The roaring from the crowd only intensifies.

But someone is shouting above the din, frantic, insistent, and Mark squints against the rain as the crowd shuffles and protests. There’s a figure pushing through them all, shoving at arms and shoulders and chests, until she trips over her own feet and lands in a heap on Doyoung’s front steps. Her hair is short and dark, plastered to her forehead, and there’s a dingy scabbard hanging at her waist. She looks up and blinks the rainwater out of her eyes. Mark hears a strangled cry rip through Donghyuck’s chest.

“Donghyuck!” The girl shouts, scrambling to stand on shaky legs. “Oh my god, Hyuck, it’s you, it’s really you—” She stumbles up the slick steps, her boots slipping and sliding on the polished marble. When she finally reaches the threshold, Donghyuck tears his hand from Mark’s and catches her by the shoulders.

“Minji—” His voice breaks on the second syllable. “Minji, you’re _alive—”_ Another strangled sob slips past his teeth. His fingers dig into her shirtsleeves, harder and harder until the color drains from his knuckles. “I’m so sorry, I’m so so sorry—”

“Hyuck.” Her hands trail over his face, as if she’s worried he might be a figment of her imagination. “I-I thought I’d never see you again—”

Donghyuck falls to his knees, shaking with sobs that are nearly lost against the pounding rain. He clings to the hem of her shirt. “I’m so sorry, I’m so so sorry, I’m sorry—”

She drops to her knees in front of him and wraps her arms tight around his shoulders. “I can’t believe it’s you, God, we missed you so much.”

The “we” strikes hot through Mark’s chest and leaves an aching wound in its wake. He sees it when Donghyuck freezes.

“Where’s mother, where is she, is she—” His words stumble over one another in desperation.

“She’s alive, Hyuck, she’s alive. They’ve taken good care of her here.” She tries to smile, watery and sad, but it fails to reach her eyes.

“But Soojin,” Donghyuck chokes. He tries to speak again, but all Mark hears are halting breaths and stuttering gasps as he trembles in Minji’s hold. “Because of them, she… How could you… How could you be here, standing with them like this—”

Minji pulls away, and shock flashes across her face. “Hyuck, no…” She shakes her head, again and again and again. “Donghyuck, she… The drought was too much; you know how weak she was.” Her voice breaks. There’s a beat of silence as Donghyuck stares at her, tears dripping from his chin and darkening the fabric of his trousers. Minji draws in a shaky breath. “Clashes with the nomads only exacerbated what already was. If anyone is to blame, it’s the Empire.” 

Nausea worms its way into Mark’s stomach. Hot tears spring to his lashes. The resolution he had been so desperately waiting for claws to the surface, and his limbs tremble with the force of it.

_Never again,_ it hisses. _The Empire will pay for this._

Ten and Xiaojun stand at his back. Jisung and Renjun stride to Doyoung’s side.

He imagines the Empire crumbling to ashes under his hands.

“I’m going to join,” Donghyuck gasps.

The resolution falters.

“They can’t keep me here.” He grasps at Minji’s collar. “I’m not going to leave you again.”

Dread creeps in through the cracks. “Donghyuck,” Mark croaks.

“I will not make the same mistake twice.” He stands on wobbly legs. His grip loosens as he stares at his sister’s searching eyes. “For Soojin,” he whispers. “We have to do it for her.”

It’s a long time before Minji speaks. When she does, it barely stutters past her lips. “For Soojin.”

“Donghyuck, no!” It claws its way across Mark’s tongue before he can stop it. His bow clatters to the ground. “Donghyuck, you can’t, it’s not safe—”

Doyoung grabs hard at his arm and yanks him backward before he can move. “If you have no faith in the movement, your highness, we will lose before we’ve even begun.”

Mark turns on him, eyes wild with panic. “You said so yourself—What if, what if we’re mad for doing this, what if—”

“And you said yourself that I have given them hope when no one else would, did you not?” His voice is firm, but there are tears pooling on his lower lashes. His fingers shake ever so slightly where they’ve gripped Mark’s arm. “If you’re determined to be a good ruler, you must do the same. We cannot crush their hope, your highness, when they’ve already made it this far.”

Mark wants to protest, wants to throw his quiver of arrows to the ground and slam the doors shut and _beg Donghyuck to stay—_

But he thinks of him with his eyes swimming in moonlight, skipping stones on the palace grounds and telling Mark that he’s _just like his father._

He thinks of him with a pitcher of water in hand, staring down the queen with a fierce resolve, sure and steady and unafraid.

He thinks of him with star-bright tears in his eyes, telling Mark that _he’s ashamed of himself; he’s been an unfilial son—_

And he sees him now, clinging to his sister with a fervent desperation, promising her that he’ll never leave again; that he’ll make things right—

“Love makes us do some very strange things, your highness,” Doyoung says softly. His eyes slide to Donghyuck, where he has once again wrapped Minji in his arms. “You, of all people, surely can’t deny that.”

“Surely not.” A soft voice, farther down the hallway, and Mark spins around in surprise. Gahyeon is standing there, hand-in-hand with Sicheng. Jaemin is at her other side, keeping his distance with his hands shoved in his pockets. “We stand with you,” she says firmly. Sicheng nods and tugs at the arrows on his back. Jaemin’s eyes meet Mark’s for half an instant before they shift to Donghyuck. Gahyeon’s lips quirk upward in a soft smile. “As family.”

Tears lodge in Mark’s throat. He opens his mouth to speak, but all he can manage is a shaky exhale.

_He has to protect them._

He reaches for her, and Gahyeon’s smile brightens. She runs forward, dragging Sicheng along behind her, until she can grasp Mark’s fingers in her own.

“As family,” Mark finally whispers.

Gahyeon nods. “Until the end.”

They turn to face the crowd, and the cacophony only grows, rising in a fever pitch until their cries war with the pounding rain. One of them breaks free and mounts the steps with a flag in hand. He passes it to Doyoung with steady movements and a steely gaze.

Doyoung takes it and inclines his head. The man returns to the crowd. Water from the flag’s soaked fabric splashes against the hardwood in a steady _drip, drip, drip._ Doyoung inhales, shuddery and slow. “And now,” he begins softly, raising his head and staring across the threshold with dark, dark eyes, “we rise.”

♕

It’s a week-long march to the palace.

Mark wonders how they’ll survive.

The first day feels endless, trudging through ankle-deep mud and wiping icy rainwater from his eyes. He watches men and women guide horses laden with supplies over the slick terrain. Donghyuck is at his side with a sword hanging from his waist and his fingers entwined with his sister’s.

They barely make it to the province’s edge by nightfall, and they set up camp in a thick pine forest that offers shelter from the rain. They’re packed six to a tent, and Gahyeon and Sicheng fall asleep immediately with their heads pillowed on burlap sacks. Minji follows soon after, and Mark watches as Donghyuck pulls a threadbare blanket to her chin. Something twists inside him, part hope and part fear, and he catches his lower lip between his teeth.

“She’s lucky to have you, you know,” he finally says.

Donghyuck glances up, and his eyes instantly soften into sadness. “I’m not so sure about that.”

Mark reaches for his hand. Donghyuck lets him take it. “She loves you unconditionally. Please never doubt that.”

“She deserves better than what I’ve given her.”

“Donghyuck,” Mark breathes. “What you’ve done is not important. What matters now is what you are going to do.”

There’s a sudden shuffling as Jaemin gets to his feet and leaves the tent. The flap flutters in the breeze behind him. Donghyuck lets out a heavy sigh. “We grew up together, you know. Jaemin and I.”

Mark catches the undertone in it, the implication of finality, and he frowns. “He will forgive you eventually, Donghyuck. That’s what friends do—”

“No.” Donghyuck shakes his head. “I don’t think he will.”

There’s a certain injustice to it that stings, and Mark releases his hold on Donghyuck’s hand. “Stay here with her.” He nods toward Minji. “I’ll talk with Jaemin.”

“Mark, please, it’s really of no use—”

But Mark has already pushed past the tent entrance into the chilly night. The camp is massive, stretching out into inky darkness as far as he can see in either direction. Bright orange campfires dot the blackness like beacons at sea. He finds Jaemin huddled in front of one, shucking off his soaked jacket and laying it across his knees to dry. Mark moves to sit next to him in the dirt.

“What do you want, your highness.” It’s as cold and curt as Mark expected.

He lets out a breath. “What Donghyuck is doing… he’s very brave, you know. Selfless.”

Jaemin snorts and rustles the kindling with a long stick. Sparks fizz and pop into the air.

“I-I’m serious, Jaemin, don’t you think he deserves—”

“Deserves what?” Jaemin snaps. He throws the stick into the fire. “Forgiveness? Sympathy? Sorry, but I haven’t got enough of either of those to just hand them out like food rations.”

Mark stiffens. He tries to think of a response, but the words turn to ash on his tongue.

“Do you have any idea what he put us through? What he put his family through, what he put _me through—”_

“He told me…” Mark swallows. “He told me that you grew up together.”

Jaemin raises a brow. “Oh, did he?” His tone drips to the ground, caustic. “How sweet of him to mention it.” He moves to stand, but Mark grabs his sleeve and tugs him back down. Jaemin huffs out an affronted breath.

“He’s trying,” Mark whispers. “He’s trying so hard to make things right.”

“He wouldn’t have to make things right if he hadn’t fucked up in the first place.”

Mark sucks in a breath. “That’s hardly fair.”

“You know what isn’t fair?” Jaemin whirls on him then, and shadows pool in the dips of his face, making him look years older. “Do you want to know what isn’t _fair,_ your highness? That I’ve been fighting a useless war, pushing back the nomads when they weren’t even the ones to blame! That people have been so cruel and so _hateful,_ this entire movement erupted into violence before we even had a chance to stop it! Do you want to know _what isn’t fair—”_ It catches on a sob, and shock flares through Mark’s system when he sees tears in Jaemin’s eyes, glistening bright orange in the light. Jaemin takes in a breath and scrubs at his eyes angrily. “That my family had to _die for this,_ this movement that they were never a part of, this _revolution—”_ He shakes his head. “I did everything I could for them. _Everything._ And I did it alone.”

Mark’s stomach twists inside-out. He thinks of reaching for Jaemin’s arm, comforting him, telling him that everything will be okay in the end—

“I could have used his help, you know,” Jaemin continues. His voice drops into something softer, something sad, and Mark is surprised to see his hands shaking where they’re placed atop his knees. “He’s my best friend. That should have meant something.”

“It does mean something,” Mark whispers.

Jaemin scowls. He twists his fingers together until they begin to lose their color. “Don’t forget that this is your fault,” he mutters. “I’ve lost everything because of you.”

“I…” It dies on his tongue, crushed by overwhelming guilt.

“Just…” Jaemin sighs. There’s an exhaustion to it that Mark never noticed before. “If this works, and they put you on that throne…” He stands, and this time Mark doesn’t try to stop him. “Just make it better. We deserve that much.” He strides toward the tent without looking back.

Mark watches him go.

♕

The march continues, arduous and endless.

The rain stops after the second day, and they’re left with a chilly wind blowing in from the North. The trees flaunt leaves edged in copper and gold. Mark wonders when the seasons began to change. Autumn was beautiful in the capital city, with the palace decorated to welcome the harvest festival and citizens milling about the town square with overstuffed baskets on their arms. He remembers attending the festival once as a child, with his nursemaid laughing and carrying him on her shoulders.

A lifetime ago, now.

He chokes on the nostalgia and keeps his head down.

After the fourth day, their ranks have swelled to ten thousand at the least. They pass through dozens of nomadic strongholds whose leaders had been informed months prior. Their tribes fall into step easily. Flags snap in the icy wind.

They reach the capital city’s outer wall on the sixth day. It looms tall and imposing against the gray sky. Icy raindrops slide across its surface, one after another like so many wasted tears. The fear Mark had been feeling for days strikes razor sharp through his chest and leaves him frozen in front of the city gates.

Doyoung comes to stand beside him. His face is streaked with dirt, his hair rests in matted clumps against his forehead, and exhaustion pools in the spaces beneath his eyes. “Everything is about to change,” he murmurs.

Mark’s hands tremble at his sides. “I’m afraid,” he whispers.

Doyoung’s mouth turns down at the corners. Mark sees his grip tighten on the hilt of his sword as he pulls it halfway from its sheath. “Aren’t we all.”

Before Mark can think of a reply, Ten has shoved his way to the front of the crowd with a tattered flag in hand. He raises it high. It snaps loudly in the chilly breeze. “And now,” he shouts, loud and clear over the storm. The crowd falls eerily silent. “We rise!”

And that’s all it takes.

The city gates topple like children’s blocks under their boots, and a cry rises from the army as one. It’s edged in pain, in loss and grief and injustice, and it tears straight through to Mark’s core. Something ignites—hot, fierce, desperate—and he’s following them, stomping over the collapsed wrought iron gates with a resolve he didn’t know he possessed.

The capital’s citizens shriek and stumble away. Baskets fall from their hands and spill across the cobbled streets. Merchants duck behind their carts. Women pull their children close. Mark thinks it’s a cruel form of irony, that they’re being treated as the enemy when the vicious spires of the palace loom mere meters away. He wonders what they will think of him when he takes the throne.

The army marches inexorably forward, flooding the streets and spilling into alleyways. The palace’s shadow stretches long and dark across the square. If Mark squints against the rain, he can just make out his bedroom window. Someone had pulled the shutters closed. Nostalgia creeps up his throat again as he thinks of rainy afternoons with a fire in the hearth. He thinks of Lucas outside his door, ever-present and loyal to the end. He thinks of Donghyuck preparing a tea service; thinks of the way dusky evening light had danced across the bruise on his face—

The nostalgia stops cold.

_Never again,_ the resolve hisses.

He pushes down the fear and pulls an arrow from the quiver on his back.

_Never again._

He’s just about to mount the palace steps when he sees it—a flash of silver on his right, ten more on his left, twenty more, thirty more, and his heart drops like a stone in water. Hundreds of armed royal guards swarm the square with arrows nocked and swords drawn. He realizes with a spark of terror that several of them have illegal firearms themselves. Icy unease wars with his searing resolve.

“Stand down!” One of them shouts. It’s easily eclipsed by the roar of the crowd and the sounds of weapons being unsheathed.

“That’s a royal order!” Another armed soldier bellows.

The cacophony only grows. The army inches forward.

“As a guard of the Royal Empire, I _command you—”_

Fire meets gasoline.

The army surges forward with a collective cry that rings in Mark’s ears. He’s swept up in the force of it, jostled back and forth by elbows and shoulders and angry hands. His bow is knocked to the ground, and the crowd pushes him forward before he can reach for it. His feet slip and slide across wet stone. His breath catches in his throat, and the palace walls begin to swim before his eyes.

A gunshot rends the air.

Mark’s vision snaps back into sickening focus.

A sharp scream forces his blood to a standstill.

_Bang bang bang bang—_

Bodies begin to slump, one after another after another.

Arrows rain thick, clattering against the street when they miss their targets. Someone on Mark’s left—a woman whose name he never knew—shrieks as a metal arrowhead tears through her chest. Blood collects in rivers between the cobblestones. His stomach lurches into his throat.

Near the palace doors, a royal guard collapses, and Mark flinches when he sees the arrow lodged in the side of his neck. The army continues forward, surging up the steps in a flurry of gunpowder and blood-soaked steel. Mark feels open, vulnerable, _terrified,_ and when he catches sight of Doyoung at the palace’s entryway, he scrambles forward and clings to his sleeves.

“Doyoung, we can’t, th-they can’t, they’re—”

A cut on Doyoung’s cheek oozes blood that trails toward his collar. His eyes are wide and all color has drained from his face. “We…” His gaze slides, glassy, over the people he had sworn to protect. “We cannot lose hope, your highness.”

“This is _madness—”_ Mark shouts, but it dies in a choked gasp when the palace doors shudder and groan under the army’s weight. They explode inward before Mark takes another breath, and the wood splits and snaps like breaking bones. They surge into the grand hallway with a shout, and Mark aches with a longing so strong, it knocks the wind from his lungs.

_Home._

His feet cease to move, and the army pushes him forward without mercy. The door to the throne room hangs open, but suspicion prickles down his spine a second too late. They crowd past the doorframe—cries, screams, reaching hands—and the noise bounces off the room’s arched ceiling. Mark feels someone grab at his fingers, and he yanks his hand away in panic. They try again, their nails scrabbling against Mark’s cracked skin, and he whirls around to see Donghyuck staring at him with wide eyes. A sigh shudders past his lips, and he links their hands together hard enough for it to hurt. There’s a deep cut on Donghyuck’s upper arm, staining his sleeve crimson all the way down to the wrist, and Mark feels lightheaded.

Donghyuck follows his gaze and shakes his head. “It’s nothing.” He has to raise his voice to be heard over the din.

“It’s hardly _nothing.”_ Terror slides thick around Mark’s neck. “This is why I wanted you to stay behind, Donghyuck, I need you to be _safe—”_ The crowd continues forward, and he stumbles over his own feet.

_Bang! Bang!_

Every remaining word withers on his tongue as gunshots ring throughout the room. Royal guards flood in from the opposite entrance like water past a broken dam. The noise is deafening—spikes driving into his ears—and he chokes when a handful of people collapse to the floor a mere arm’s length away.

_“Donghyuck, you have to go—”_

“I won’t!” Donghyuck shouts.

Anxiety pools in his stomach. He searches the room for Minji, Jaemin, Gahyeon—pictures them with glassy eyes, drowning in rivers of their own blood—

_“Please, Donghyuck, please, I’m begging—”_ He tugs him back toward the entrance, shoving blindly as hot tears blur his vision. Steel scrapes steel, screams rend the air, blood collects thick on the polished tile.

_Bang!_

Donghyuck’s hand goes limp in his.

Mark whirls as panic claws down his throat. His eyes meet Donghyuck’s—wide and _so scared—_ and the softest breath slips past Donghyuck’s parted lips. Mark sees tears rise to his lashes.

“What—”

Donghyuck’s free hand grips at the front of his own shirt. His fingers shake. A choked noise tumbles from his tongue. Blood drips bright crimson down his fingers—

Blood—

Mark doesn’t recognize the scream that tears its way from his chest. It leaves his throat raw and aching, and he thinks it sounds like Donghyuck’s name. He scrabbles for his other hand, and a tremor slices down his spine when his fingers meet warm, slick blood. It’s so much, too much, soaking the front of Donghyuck’s shirt and dripping to the floor, _oh God—_

“Love, please,” Mark chokes. He tastes salt—tears running into his mouth—and a tinny ringing ricochets from ear to ear. “No, no, _please, no, nonononono—”_

Donghyuck tips forward, and Mark staggers under his full weight. He slips his arms around his waist. When his fingers brush past the bullet wound in the middle of his back, his stomach seizes and he gags on the tears in his throat. _No no no no no—_

A thousand thoughts flash through his brain—move him, protect him, _save him—_ and he stumbles backward, dragging Donghyuck along with him. The crowd teems and roars around them, slipping across the tile, tearing at clothes and bare skin, drowning in blood and tears—

Once they’ve reached the back of the room, Mark scrambles for the nearest door handle—the dining room, and he prays it’s empty, prays it’s _safe._ His bloodied fingers slide from the knob again and again. He barely hears Donghyuck choke out a wheeze.

“Please, Donghyuck, please, I’m going to fix it—” The door finally swings inward, and Mark sags against the frame, using it to support their combined weight as he heaves Donghyuck across the threshold. He pushes it closed with shaking hands and just manages to turn the lock. Muffled screams from the throne room filter through.

Donghyuck trembles in his arms.

Mark’s knees give out then, and he collapses to the floor with his hands buried deep in the fabric of Donghyuck’s shirt. Donghyuck’s head rests heavy against his shoulder.

“Mark,” he gasps.

Mark’s heart shudders and cracks behind his ribcage. “Don’t worry, love, it’s going to be fine, everything is going to be fine, I’ll make it better, I promise—”

Donghyuck reaches for Mark’s shoulders. His grasp is weak, shaky, but he pushes himself back until their eyes meet. “I hate to see you cry,” he whispers. His fingers ghost along Mark’s face—light and barely-there—as he tries to wipe the tears away. Mark catches his wrist.

“Darling, please—” His breath hitches, shudders, breaks. Another sob claws through his chest, up his throat, across his tongue. “Please, Donghyuck, you can’t—”

Donghyuck’s eyes slip closed. Horror twists Mark’s insides into knots, and he drops his wrist to cradle his face in both hands. His fingers smear blood across Donghyuck’s pretty skin. “Love, love, please, please stay with me, _Donghyuck please—”_

Donghyuck takes a shaky breath that instantly morphs into a strangled cough. His brows furrow in pain and a whimper slips past his teeth. When he opens his eyes again, there’s a glassiness to them that shoves Mark’s insides through the floor. “We…” Donghyuck swallows and blinks once, slow. “We met here.”

Mark’s brain struggles to keep up, his thoughts clouded with panic and terror, and he glances over his shoulder at the dining table, the neatly placed chairs, the glittering chandelier. He thinks of Donghyuck’s honey skin and guarded eyes on that very first day—

“W-We did, darling, that’s right,” he breathes. He slides a hand into Donghyuck’s hair and pushes it back gently from his forehead. Donghyuck’s eyes flutter closed again. It takes several seconds for him to reopen them.

“Promise me…” His voice is so weak Mark has to lean closer to hear him. “Promise me you won’t forget me, your highness.”

Mark feels his world begin to collapse. “O-Of course not, love, we have an entire life ahead of us—”

Donghyuck’s breath rattles in his chest. When he opens his mouth to speak, blood pools behind his lower lip. “Just promise me.” He coughs again, and the blood trickles down his chin.

Something visceral slices through Mark’s chest with razor-sharp fingers. He reaches to wipe the blood from Donghyuck’s face, but it only mixes with the blood on his own hands. A sorrow as wide as the ocean lodges itself in his throat. “You are the entirety of my universe, Lee Donghyuck. Now and forever. I will never forget you as long as I live.” His voice breaks. “That is a promise.”

A soft smile plays at the edges of Donghyuck’s crimson lips. His eyes close and his hands slip from Mark’s shoulders. “The Empire is lucky to have you,” he whispers. “And so was I.” He falls forward again, heavy against Mark’s shoulder. A choked breath stutters through his chest.

“Darling, no, please—” The words scrape across Mark’s tongue like briars. “Please, you can’t, you c-can’t, I _need you—”_

He hears another shaky breath.

“I can’t do this without you,” Mark sobs.

He waits for the next shaky breath.

He waits.

He waits.

He waits.

♕

The revolution leaves the Empire in tatters.

Ashes to ashes to ashes—Mark sees it fall before his eyes.

His parents die at the hands of a revolutionary he doesn’t know. He isn’t able to cry for them.

He takes the throne with his heart like lead in his chest. He appoints Doyoung as his advisor. Gahyeon and Sicheng stand by his side as heads of state. Jaemin returns to the East to care for Donghyuck’s mother. Mark views it as an act of forgiveness.

The years pass in a hazy blur, but the Empire rises from the ashes all the same.

Towns are rebuilt with aching hands and heavy hearts.

Nomadic clan leaders join the Royal Council. Their monthly meetings are open to the public, and citizens from all across the Empire attend in droves. The sharp edges of hatred and fear slowly soften into tolerance and understanding.

The palace’s servants are given the option of returning to their families. Mark offers them enough money to last a lifetime, but they politely decline, one by one.

_“We stand with you, Your Majesty,”_ they say.

He wishes they wouldn’t, though, because his heart still leaps into his throat when they knock at his bedroom door. His body moves before his brain, and he runs to the door every time, Donghyuck’s name poised on the tip of his tongue—the servants are used to it now: the way his breath catches in his throat and his knees give out. He knows they talk about it sometimes, when they think he isn’t listening, and the raw, aching hole in his chest only gets that much larger.

_“His Majesty is rather strange, don’t you think?” A petite girl murmurs to Gahyeon during breakfast. She had only been at the palace for a month, but Mark feels her eyes on him every day as he picks at his food. “Whenever I bring tea, I feel he’s expecting someone else.”_

_Gahyeon’s eyes turn infinitely sad._

_Mark has to leave the table._

He spends much of his time in the conservatory, knees pulled tight against his chest and eyes fixed on the ceiling. Doyoung joins him occasionally, sitting on the floor next to him and leaning against his arm.

_“He would be so proud, you know,” he murmurs one night, eyes glued to the stars beyond the glass._

_Mark never trusts his voice in times like these. He nods and turns his face away._

_“He is still with us, Your Majesty.” Doyoung’s tone slips into something ruminative and soft. “In every rebuilt town, every reunited family, every wrong made right. He is at the very heart of our Empire.”_

Mark carries that with him, soft and careful behind his ribcage, and imagines the Empire cradled in the palm of his hand. At its center he sees Donghyuck. His soft smile. His pretty eyes. His fierce resolve.

_The Empire was lucky to have you, darling,_ he thinks. He aches down to the marrow of his bones. _And so was I._

**THE END**

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> i honestly don't even know where to start... 
> 
> when i first posted 'a fire repeated' a year and a half ago, i never expected to receive so much love and support from you guys. it was my first markhyuck fic and i honestly just wrote it on a whim, and the fact that it's come so far is really insane to me.  
> i've made so many friends during the course of this series, and i just want to say thank you all so so so much--you're incredibly kind and sweet and i appreciate all the encouraging words you've given ;;; 
> 
> thank you all for sticking with this series until the end. it means a lot <3 i hope it's found a place in your hearts, at least for a little while.
> 
> much love,  
> chel 
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/excelgesis)


End file.
